


Piety Shield

by perceptivefics



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Beforus Culling (Homestuck), Caliginous-Flushed Vacillation, Chucklevoodoos, EVENTUALLY I SWEAR, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Mutant Cronus, Purple Kankri, bloodswap au, super fucked up beginning with a happy ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-11 03:32:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13515753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perceptivefics/pseuds/perceptivefics
Summary: Cronus has been born and raised in the Beforan culling system, and is completely out of control. Culling officials are trying everything they can to stifle him into complacency - including shipping him off to a purpleblood who's said to make an obedient babe out of even the most impossible culling candidates.Kankri sees Cronus as a challenge. Cronus sees Kankri as a conquest.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-by-chapter warnings will be posted for additional stuff I didn't want to shove into the story tags. That being said, I do warn this is going to start out dark and pretty dang fucked up. Proceed with caution if this isn't your normal kind of thing.
> 
> Updates will be sporadic. I've got lots of other projects I'm working on, but I got bit by an itch after listening to a Blaqk Audio song. I guess that technically makes this a songfic?
> 
> **CW: implied past abuse, brief suicidal ideation**

Next time, you think. The next transfer will be the last one for sure. The next unlucky bastard who gets saddled with the apparent abhorrence of your existence will be the one that finally checks that box on your list that says “killed a culler.” Another punishable offense in a long line of many, but it could finally be the one to put a permanent mark of death across your throat. It wouldn’t take much provocation; only a look, perhaps. A little glimpse of whatever fucker that gets you and you’ll get up the moxy for it right there. Plenty of anger and rage already boils within you about it, just under the surface of your skin. It’s been so long since you’ve felt anything else that it seems like it was always there, bursting out of every muscle and every bone in ways the highbloods don’t appreciate. _Fuck you. Fuck this. Fuck him. Fuck her. Fuck your blood color. Fuck MY blood color._

 

Maybe that last one they don’t mind as much; they don’t like your blood color any more than you do. Vivid mutant-red as you are, why would they?

 

Little did you know the other day that a transfer was exactly what the doctor ordered. In retrospect, perhaps it’s of little surprise: it rarely takes a culler very long to get fed up with you these days. Culling always works better with children. Grublings. _You,_ on the other hand, were born and raised a cullee, and you are completely fucking sick of it. Your adult molt has come and gone, and with adulthood came the fearsome combination of strength, ambition, and the wits to pull it all off. Adult cullees are famously impossible to control, which makes you even more so. You are an unstoppable force of self-destructive loathing and outsourced fury - one that _will not_ be shooshed, _will not_ be papped, not by these self-serving pompous fucks. Pretentious motherfuckers who are just about your same age but treat you like they’re lightyears ahead in the game. The transfer rides between homes are the only instances where you are even remotely cooperative, which _always_ throws them off. Trying to put you in cuffs only to discover all they have to do is open the car door.

 

Transfer trips are the only instances in your short, cursed life where you are free of ownership.

 

This latest ride is spent, as many transfers are, gearing up for the new culler. It’s surprisingly difficult to know what to expect this time around; nobody’s said a word about what kind of caretaker this troll is. Usually the officials will give you at least a hint - tell you a little bit about them, their interests, their culling style. Like it’s supposed to warm you up to them. Fake unwanted matchmaking made into a mockery of a diamond. But this time, they don’t say much, and it leaves you floundering a little. The only thing they mention is that the one getting you this time? He handles _the special cases._

 

“Special” as in “difficult.” How it took them this long to figure out your fierce fire would never go out, you have no idea. Doesn’t matter though, really. One way or the other, this one will cave just like the rest. Maybe it will take a little longer than usual - but you haven’t met a culler yet who’s succeeded in completely overpowering you. One day, they’ll run out of trolls who are capable and willing to placate such an impossible case. And then what will they do?

 

 _God,_ you’re looking forward to that day.

 

Head leaning against the window, you soon spy the massive chunk of land where you will be doomed to spend the next However Long. You take this opportunity to learn a little more about the troll now destined to cull you. Driving up to the front doors is already harrowing enough: endless stretches of garden greenery and lavish landscaping fly by the glass before the actual house itself comes anywhere close to looming in the distance. When the car pulls up, it’s a large, old-looking structure: gothic and intricate, with several branching wings to the architecture and three above-ground floors. Dark paint of an indescribable color and gold and silver trim decorate the outside.

 

Someone of high status, then, with lots of money and clout. Someone who can easily keep you isolated from the rest of society. Trying to escape might already be tougher than you’re used to just by how much land you’d have to cross _alone,_ and that’s not even accounting for what kind of security system they might have yet. If at all. Sometimes you’re lucky - the richer ones don’t like being spied on even by themselves. You can forget trying to flee out the back, according to your driver: everything to see about this estate is apparently from the front. In back, there’s only a sharp vertical drop over a cliff and into the ocean. Seeing as you don’t own a working pair of gills, if the rocks didn’t finish the job at low tide, the ocean itself would do it all the same.

 

The driver leads you inside through the large, dark, wood double doors. Passing through them, you see that they are delicately decorated with swirls of inlaid silver filigree. Some baubles and imagery carefully spread over their faces indicate a man who lives a life of piety. So your culler is a highblood of status, and a member of the Dark Carnival.

 

All signs point to a purple.

 

The contingency plans are already formulating in your thinkpan.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CW: physical/psychological torture ; emotional abuse ; unwanted pale advances**
> 
> Make sure you're strapped in from here on out. I did say this was gonna get fucked up.

Given the size of this enormous mansion - far too large for any one troll, highblood or no - their proximity to the sea air, and lack of pervasive lighting, the whole interior should be ice cold from top to bottom. However, walking through the space yields that simple comforts like  _ warmth  _ are apparently not beyond him. Your natural mutant heat often helps you shake off the coldest winters regardless, but in here, you don’t even shiver. In fact, after being pushed up a few flights of winding, carpeted stairs, you actually feel a little hot.

 

Eventually - perhaps not made of stern enough stuff to be the guest of such a powerful troll - the simpering blueblood who brought you here can’t stand to stick around. They instruct that your culler is through the door just ahead of you once you’re on the topmost floor, and then duck out. You are left standing in the hallway alone while they hurry for the front to leave as fast as they can. Here, it’s easy to see this is the level of the house meant for personal living as opposed to public appearances: sparse decoration, simpler themes, bits and bobs geared more towards personal taste or comfort rather than impressment. Still, even up here, the carpet alone is worth more than anything you’ve ever owned.

 

Everything in this particular hall space is dyed in deep colors ranging from black to crimson. The doors are outlined in gold; spots of red and dark-green break up the black and purple, along with strips of colorful violet and shimmering copper. At first, it all seems terribly tacky, but that changes as you walk the hall. Movement forces you to see how the colors glow and blend together. The effect is admittedly unsettling: even knowing it’s just a trick of the eye, it gives one a feeling of wading through a rainbow river. To think  _ this  _ is the intimidation tactic that raises your hairs pulls your mouth into a scowl as you reach the other end. Like it’s your first time around the block? Fat chance. What could he possibly do that you haven’t suffered already?

 

Bolstering your own confidence, you throw open the door.

 

It makes sense to just get the introductions over with, you figure. Test the waters a little. See where the two of you stand, what kind of boundaries you can cross later. It’s the first thing on your mind as you walk through into what appears to be a sitting room, and an obviously favored space.

 

There is almost no character to the room itself: solid washes of a heavy black dominate the walls, giving you the sense of stepping into a void. The carpet is dark-purple, but matches so well with the walls that you have to squint to see the difference. Only the soft, paler furniture breaks up the space, equally as lifeless and expensive. All of the color in here comes, in fact, from the windows: Beforan moonlight filtering through beautiful, hand-crafted stained glass. It shatters the outside light into a thousand little multi-colored slivers - a kaleidoscope of the hemospectrum dancing on every surface, including you. Including the shorter, severely dressed troll resting in one of the reclining chairs before you.

 

Fine black heels blend seamlessly into tight, dark leggings that stop at his natural waistline. Tucked into that is a silken purple shirt with puffy sleeves and a tight, high collar, elegant and sharp, that stops just short of his jawline. An opulent violet jewel - the only accessory on his person - rests in the little divot where you imagine his collarbone must be. On the jewel you think you spy his symbol: a pair of purple shackles. You try not to think of the meaning. He’s reading through a little vanilla folder as thick as your arm, which is likely your case file.

 

He’s the very picture of purple-blooded elegance, but not in the way you expected. Others of his blood color tend to be much larger in your experience. They’re  _ supposed  _ to be big, aren’t they? Big, buff, honking (hah) muscular beauties - or at the very least, larger than  _ you.  _ And you’re pretty damn big for a blood-mutated freak, according to  _ literally everyone.  _ Not this one; this one is shorter than you. He doesn’t appear to have a single jagged cut of muscle in his body - it’s hard to tell with the shirt, but his legs, at least, you can assess. Long and lithe, with big hips and soft thighs. Everything about him is  _ rounded,  _ and he’s so...unassuming? Is he still practically a baby by purple standards? God, given how old  _ you  _ are, that’s almost the most insulting thought of all. And what’s with those horns? How is it possible for horns to be that nubby and small? All of this land and decadent living surrounding him, you assumed he would at least be…

 

“Buying into your own assumptions is the swiftest way to fall here.”

 

His voice catches you off guard, making you blink. At first, uncertain you’ve heard anything at all, you watch him with narrowed eyes, hands in your pockets. Your posture stays tense, but passive. For now. “‘Scuse me?”

 

“You heard me.”

 

He snaps the folder shut. It’s the loudest sound in the room, next to the way your blood rushes through your ears when he lifts his eyes. He looks at you, smiles, and you have to catch yourself a moment. You’ve always had an appreciation for the finer things - things and people with natural beauty. Even with some of your older cullers, it’s true. But appreciation is as far as you ever go. Never forget that these are the fuckers who want to turn you into an obedient, bleating little woolbeast for the rest of your life.

 

“I said,” the purpleblood continued, “that it would be unwise of you to make assumptions under my roof.”

 

There’s something about his gaze which draws you in, but you can’t quite pinpoint it. For the time being, you just try to shake it off and keep your head clear. Purples in general, even with their intimidation tactics, always have a way of using their allure to get ahead in their own social spheres.

 

Giving him another look, his eyes are dark and bitter, but they definitely reflect the rich color of his blood. You’re sure that he can see the bright candy-red of your own plain as day, even with all the scattered rainbow light in here. He's got his carnival paints on, further widening the gap that splits you two apart: you, in a plain signless shirt and tight jeans, your only luxury in appearance being the neat back-slick of your hair. Compare that against him: soft silk and gossamer clothes and fluffy-curly hair, face done up in white and black to mimic a dead troll’s skull. Only his hands give away the fact that he is still among the living, but even the gray is blanched of color, as though he's rarely - if ever - set foot outside his house.

 

“I ain’t makin’ no assumptions.” The reply is curt, bordering on petulant. About as much as he deserves, in your opinion.

 

His thick eyebrows raise up. He smiles bigger. “So you’re a thief  _ and  _ a liar! Tut  _ tut,  _ Cronus.”

 

The way he says your name makes your skin crawl. Condescending; haughty; looking down his nose at you like all the rest. You’ve easily got a foot of height over him, but he’s still found a way to cut you down to size, and it pisses you off. Teeth gnashed behind pursed lips, you reply: “You wanna accuse me of startin’ some shit before I’ve even settled, go ahead.”

 

The shorter troll’s smile is practically from ear to ear now. He gets up and claps his hands together, looking like an excited teacher at the head of a classroom. “Oh, this is going to just be  _ delightful!  _ Yes, I think I’ll have fun with you!”

 

It’s difficult to hide the look of mild alarm surfacing on your features. You reel back a little on your feet at the expression he’s making. “You’ll have  _ fun?  _ How you figure I’m gonna be  _ fun?”  _ Almost - actually, thinking about it now,  _ blatantly  _ \- in a direct challenge, you add, with a confident smirk: “Think you’re gonna be the one to break me?”

 

His smile stays disturbingly sweet and over-friendly as he hums a happy tone. The cadence of his speech is too reassuring, too sticky with pale connotations. “The notes from your previous cullers says they clearly didn’t know how to handle you. But I do. I  _ know  _ I’ll be the one to cull you proper.”

 

“Why?” You demand, chewing around the roll of tobacco stuck between your teeth. “You think you know somethin’ they don’t? ‘Cause lemme tell you, all those other fuckers thought the same exact thing.”

 

_ “Mmmmmm,  _ and you just steamrolled right through all of them, didn’t you?”

 

He sounds  _ far  _ too excited about your history with past cullers. Against better judgment, when he advances, you step back. Immediate regret. His proximity is uncomfortable, but you can’t let him see it; can’t show fear. Never let them know how they get to you.

 

“Beat a few of ‘em to a pulp, even.” You say it like a badge of honor; trying to buff up your ego. You’ve done this whole song and dance before, and there’s no reason it should turn out any different - sometimes, however, you do need a little reminder.

 

The smaller, lean purpleblood, with his nubby horns and swiveling hips, walks right up until he’s toe-to-toe with you. Willowy, delicate, yet firm hands reach for your face before you’re ready to push off any physical advances. Suddenly he’s got you by the eyes, cooing sweetly. A heavy weight presses down on your insides as you’re suddenly reminded that purples also have that weird mind-power thing they do; the gift of their kind that they love to claim comes from their deep reverence of their Mirthful Messiahs. It’s an awful sensation; makes you feel sluggish at best, stupid at worst, and near to primal either way. It is also what currently forces you to stand still as stone while your new culler gingerly cups his cold hands against your cheeks and pulls you down to his level with a strength you’re honestly surprised to discover he has.

 

“You  _ did,  _ didn’t you?” He purrs, filling your whole vision with his face, his oscillating purple eyes and funny smile as you do your damndest to resist. The two of you are nose-to-nose - so close you could smell him if he were in heat. You feel your spine and all your muscles lock up as the contact continues, torn between anger and basic self-preservation.

 

Sensing your displeasure (to put it mildly), holding the crushing wave of psychic energy on your mind, he shushes you with gentle tones and pets your head. Somehow the sound penetrates  _ into  _ your ears; strokes up and down and all around inside your head, making his voice echo, like it’s coming from all directions. “Oh, dear, sssshhh. Don’t fuss. Sssssshhhh. I’m not angry at all about that. What’s done is done, and I’m happy for you! You’re a good,  _ healthy  _ troll, that’s a lovely thing! A troll needs to stay strong. Even if they’re a bastard mistake of creation, like you.”

 

He pats your face, condescending as all hell, which makes a snarl bubble up in the pit of your chest. “Oh, now,  _ hush,” _ he sighs. “Don’t worry your pretty little head, Cronus. We’re going to have a  _ beautiful  _ time together, you and I. I’m so pleased that they sent you to me. I know  _ exactly  _ what you need.”

 

When some of the pressure lifts off your thinkpan, there is immediate disgust in your face. “You ain’t the fuckin’ boss a me.” You snap, “I ain’t been culled down yet and I’m too damn old for a little shit like you to break that streak.”

 

He tips his head at you curiously, still holding your face in his hands. “What makes you think that will make a difference?”

 

“Gee, let’s see, maybe ‘cause you’re obviously a tiny little baby?” You growl. “Other purple cullers that were three times your size tried all this same crap on me. Give ya three guesses how well they worked out.”

 

You are answered with a dismissive shrug. “Age is just a measurement of time. I’m still several sweeps older than you - more than you could ever care to fathom. Besides, I’m not like other purplebloods.”

 

_ “Yaaawn,”  _ you groan. “Theatrics already?”

 

With a smirk, he replies: “It’s true, though! Why do you think I get all the best problem cases?”

 

“Oh, cut the shit. You ain’t special. No more’n any of my other cullers were.” After a pause, you add: “And get your dirty hands off my fuckin’ face.”

 

“Or what?”

 

“Or I’ll smack ya square in the nose. How’s that for  _ or what?” _

 

He laughs again, gripping your face tighter for a spell. His fingernails pinch your cheeks before he steps back, one hand moving to his chest in a gesture of introduction.

 

“My name is Kankri Vantas. You may call me Kankri, or you may call me Sir.”

 

Ah. And there it is. First boundary of the day; first to get established, first one to break. Time to test the waters.

 

You straighten up to your full height, pretending to give it some thought, though you already know how you want to reply. For good measure, you put a wicked little smirk on as you do. “Sure thing,  _ Kanny.  _ Sir.”

 

In retrospect, hours later when you reflect on this, it will occur to you that while a reaction to toeing the line is always expected, maybe you should have started off a little softer. Had you known simply mocking Kankri’s name would get you such a visceral response, you would have backed off. No use in screwing yourself over straight out of the gate.

 

But that will be later. Right now, you’re in the present, where Kankri’s soft, painted upper lip disappears into a tight line, tension settling into his features  _ immediately.  _ That and the mild twitch of his fingers are the only split-second indication that  _ Shit Is Invariably About To Go Down  _ before you feel that rush of awful pressure on your brain again - your  _ entire body,  _ actually. Yanking down your arms, shoving at your shoulders, making you drop to your knees. It’s not exactly a new trick, but whatever Kankri is doing with his chucklevoodoos, it’s definitely a new  _ twist.  _ You are in  _ a lot  _ of pain - resistance is a lot tougher here. Usually they just tend to pound away at your higher cognitive functions until you either cave in or pass out (usually passing out), which is almost totally centered in your head and leaves you with an eye-gouging migraine after, but at least you know how to live through that.

 

Kankri’s method throws you off guard. Kankri’s method is more comparable to a knife in your ear, turning and turning around in a slow and horrible circle, ever so gently digging a messy hole through your skull. All while your whole body feels like it’s on fire and your joints are ready to burst.

 

“What’s my name?” He asks. His voice is soft and musical, even rattling around and needling into your gray matter as it is. Sucking air between your teeth, you brace your own resolve. This truly is horrible - that would be impossible to deny - but you think  _ maybe  _ you can withstand it. Frankly, based on principle alone, you almost  _ have  _ to.

 

“Khhh- _ Kanny  _ the Baby Nanny,” you sneer, laughing. It makes no sense, but it feels at least a little bit clever.

 

Aaaand the laughter is gone, replaced with biting back a gasp as the pain doubles all over.

 

“Ahhh, a funny boy!” Kankri giggles, drawing closer to you with an innocent smile on his smug, painted face. “What’s my  _ fucking  _ name, funny boy?”

 

His words burrow deeper into your head while you groan aloud from the ache of it. “My name ain’t  _ funny boy,”  _ you hiss. That only earns you a hard stabbing sensation at the base of your neck. You  _ almost  _ cry out when you can  _ swear  _ there is  _ actually  _ a knife buried in you, splitting your spine all the way down the middle. It does make you arch in pain, but you refuse to do anything more.

 

“I know exactly what your name is, you dirty heathen,” Kankri replies patiently. “Now answer my motherfucking question.  _ What is my name?” _

 

“You snotty, self-serving, preachy little motherffFFF -”

 

Agony snaps through your limbs, forcing your voice up an octave in shock and cutting you short with a squawk. It takes a moment to regain control over your own vocal chords. Kankri happily ignores the way you start to twist and writhe around on your elbows and knees; he crouches before you on his heels, legs spread apart, arms draped over his knees.  _ Still fucking smiling,  _ goddamn him.

 

“Name.”

 

_ “FUCK you!!” _

 

He coos at you again, beaming from ear to ear. “If only you weren’t such a sin against nature, perhaps I’d consider it.” Kankri reaches out, dragging one nail over your jawline, and his touch alone is like cold fire burning your skin. Your body starts to shake from sensory overload; there is  _ so much pain.  _ You feel like you are literally dying. You are starting to regret your decision to try and call his bluff.

 

He clicks his tongue in a childish admonishment, running his nails over your horns. “Now, this is just silly. Look how you make yourself suffer when all you have to do is be a good boy and tell the truth. No funny business.”

 

A feral, angry growl tears out of your throat while your eyes stay cast down. You can’t even glare anymore; all your concentration is on not buckling under the pain. “Not...your fuckin’... _ GOOD...BOY,”  _ you snarl.

 

Kankri shrugs, rubbing the base of your horns in a gross mockery of pale placation that makes you feel like he’s pulling your sinews up through your forehead. “All you have to do is tell me my name, darling, and I can make it stop. Or keep calling me names if you like. Suffer on your self-made pyre. It’s your choice.” You  _ swear  _ his smile is bigger when he adds: “Makes no difference to me. I think you look gorgeous either way.”

 

Breathing becomes a chore after ten more seconds. In twenty, Kankri is stroking your hair instead of your horns, crunching out the stiffness from the gel. He keeps touching you, cooing at you, and you cannot stop him because your nerves are like ice and your muscles feel like they’re shredding to pieces just under your skin. He tuts at you gently as your forehead touches the carpet. Even with all your toughness, all that you’ve suffered, everything that everyone has ever put you through - you  _ whine. _

 

He repeats the question, slowly, drawing out each syllable.  _ Really  _ letting it permeate, letting it  _ fester  _ in your head. “What’s my name?”

 

_ Fuck,  _ you can’t do it. You  _ hate  _ this. You  _ hate  _ yourself for cracking, but it’s too much. “KANKRI! KANKRI, KANKRI, _ KANKRI!!” _

 

Relief is almost immediate. It lifts like snapping out of a nightmare - like a blanket of fog clearing the streets. Your body collapses and you groan, thanking your lucky stars.  _ Sweet fucking Christ.  _ There’s a gentle undertow of endorphins flooding you, which is surely not of your doing, but it takes the edge off. Keeps you conscious. Lets you breathe. You fucking loathe it.

 

You cannot believe you fucking lost. This will have to be addressed later when you’ve got a better mind to puzzle out alternatives. Not right now - not while you’re still reeling from that little round of torture, with Kankri pulling you towards him, cradling you by the head with a happy smile and purring in satisfaction. He strokes your hair, your cheek, your shoulder. You feel sick.

 

“See, that’s not so hard, is it?”


End file.
